


let the sun shine again

by lilabut



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: This isn't what either of them had planned. But it is what it is, and for the first time in so long, they both have no choice but to accept that.





	1. june

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I intended for this to be a one shot, but I realized pretty quickly that this will end up being a slight bit too long for that. So, the plan is to split this into a few relatively short chapters, maybe around nine or ten. The idea of a baby fic for these two just would not let me go, but it's still mostly a blur in my mind so bear with me here :)

"Shit," Karen hisses, tossing the white plastic stick into the sink. The white of her knuckles pushes through as she grabs the counter, taking quick, shallow breaths.

 

_Shit._

 

Her face is paler than usual, the skin almost translucent. A perfect canvas for the bruising darkness beneath her eyes - remnants of too many sleepless nights.

 

Already, tears shine in her eyes.

 

This can't be happening.

 

She takes her pill every day at the same time like clockwork, has not missed a single one in the last year. She hasn't been sick these last few months, either.

 

It's bad luck. The small chance of this happening despite the precautions - and she won the jackpot. Of course.

 

Exhaling slowly, Karen takes another look at the white stick in her sink. The small screen mocking her as much as the unopened box of tampons in the cabinet underneath.

 

_pregnant_

 

* * *

 

Frank won't be home for dinner. Not today. Never on Thursdays. After the group meeting, he grabs dinner with Curtis just like he does every week.

 

She knows that. And somehow, for the first time, she feels left alone when she sits down at the table by herself. There's nothing in front of her. No take out, no leftovers, not even a sandwich. Just her dead phone and a brand new set of place mats.

 

All her appetite is gone and all she can taste now is the salt of her own tears that coats her lips.

 

There's an interview she needs to prepare. An article to edit. Laundry to be sorted. Foggy left her a message. She has bills to pay.

 

It all piles up like a mountain, suffocating her when on a regular day, she wouldn't even bother complaining about any of it. But today is not a regular day by a far stretch.

 

She desperately wants a drink, knows there's more than enough on the shelf above the fridge. Her fingers itch, tapping against the table.

 

 

 

In the end, she drinks a glass of water straight from the faucet. Throws it all up in the sink a minute later. The sour taste left on her tongue as she drags herself into bed.

 

 

 

It's dark when he comes home, the glow of the streetlights casting shadows on the bedroom's brick wall.

 

She listens as he takes off his boots by the front door, as he puts away a few dishes she left behind on the counter after breakfast. A half eaten bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee that remained untouched.

 

He sighs. Worried.

 

The bedroom door is half-open and she watches as he walks past, running a hand through his growing hair.

 

When the bathroom door closes behind him a second later, her heart skips a beat. Her fingers curl into the sheets, holding on as the cotton drags along her skin.

 

There's no rush of water. Nothing but silence.

 

The pipes in this place are old and noisy, she'd hear even the drip of the faucet if he turned it on. All that fills the silence is the rush of the city outside. With the window cracked open, it's like a constant hum, ever present.

 

It takes a minute before the bathroom door opens again. Frank's steps are slow. So slow. The bedroom door creaks a little when he pushes it open a bit more and still Karen doesn't stir.

 

Just looks ahead into the shadows.

 

The mattress dips when Frank sits down on the edge of it, still fully dressed, still smelling of garlic and meat and she feels her throat tighten and her eyes water. But she holds it back.

 

The white stick glows in the dim light, balanced against his thigh. That single, dooming word still there, plain as day.

 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. It's not an apology. It's more than that. Goes deeper. It's hardly even audible.

 

Frank doesn't move. Doesn't stir. He just sits there and stares at the proof of what they have done, of what is happening to them.

 

"Not your fault," he murmurs then. Low and quiet into the dark.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up to a cold bed, her hand flat on the sheet. Frank's side of the bed looks like he never slept in it at all. The pillow untouched.

 

For a terrifying second, she thinks he's gone. That he left for good, that she won't see him again.

 

After everything he came back from before...

 

But then she hears him, rummaging around in the kitchen. The bedroom door is closed except for a small crack, enough for her to see the morning sunlight glowing out there.

 

Only now does she realize he drew the curtains closed in the bedroom. Closed the window, too.

 

It seems impossible to get out of bed and her legs won't cooperate. They feel like jelly beneath her, her feet dragging over the carpet. Everything is heavy as lead and stars shimmer in front of her eyes.

 

She's late for work, much too late but she has a feeling Frank took care of that, too. Almost cracks a smile at the thought of Ellison unknowingly talking to _Frank Castle_ on the phone - still firmly believing she has a boyfriend named Pete whom he has never met for multiple creative reasons she has had to come up with.

 

But she can't smile. Even the shadow of a laughter tastes like ash on her tongue.

 

He's making breakfast. There's fruit on the table, a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of tea. Buttered toast and one of those greek yogurts she likes so much.

 

They didn't have that in the fridge last night.

 

He went shopping this morning. Is tossing something in the blender now when he hears her and turns his head.

 

"Called Ellison," he explains curtly. God, he looks miserable. More tired than he has in months, and she's almost surprised there are no fresh cuts and bruises on his face. If she's being honest with herself, she half expected him to go back out there - for this to trigger something he allowed to rest for almost a year now.

 

She nods softly, holding his gaze for a moment. Looking for answers. More than anything, she wishes he would say something. _Anything._

 

She needs to know what he wants because she sure as hell has no idea right now what she wants. The thought of being a mother hasn't crossed her mind since she was a little girl playing pretend with her dolls in her parents backyard.

 

What would she want to offer her child? Safety. Comfort. Love.

 

She's not sure either her or Frank are even capable of all three. Not now. Maybe not ever.

 

Everything inside of her screams _no_. But there's one small part, buried deep down, that flutters warmly and with affection at the thought of the life she carries inside of her.

 

Her baby.

 

Frank's baby.

 

 _Their_ baby.

 

She shivers at the thought, overwhelmed in an instant and feeling shaken - days of barely eating and no sleep catching up with her.

 

But Frank is right there before she can even sway. His hands on her upper arms, warm and familiar. Calloused but always so gentle with her.

 

"Eat something," he suggests softly, his thumbs drawing small circles against her bare arms.

 

She sighs, desperate to reach out and hold him but it feels as though there's a wall between them that has not been there before.

 

“It won't stay down.”

 

He grunts quietly, one of his hands finding her cheek and she can't help but nuzzle into the tender touch. Starving for it now more than ever.

 

"Try?" he murmurs, and when she looks up to see her own tears reflected in his eyes, something falls into place.

 

She wants this. Whether he wants this or not. Whether she's ready or right or brave enough for it.

 

And with one whispered word, she seals a promise to herself. To _try_.

 

“Okay.”

 


	2. july

They still haven't told anyone.

 

Not Ellison, who must be wondering why she keeps missing work. Why she disappears into the restroom more than she's in her office. Why she misses deadlines.

 

Not Foggy, who is growing suspicious why she keeps coming up with reasons not to meet for a drink at Josie's, whose texts and calls she avoids with a trembling hand holding her phone.

 

Not Matt, who she hasn't dared to see in weeks - too afraid he'll be able to hear the baby's heartbeat or smell something different about her. He'll just _know_ somehow the way he always, always does.

 

Not Sarah Lieberman who eyed her with raised brows when she declined a glass of rosé when they were invited to dinner last week.

 

She knows Frank hasn't told David either, who kept the conversation going like there wasn't obvious tension souring the mood.

 

He hasn't told Curtis, either. He won't. Not yet.

 

They haven't spoken about it to anyone.

 

Not even to each other.

 

* * *

 

 

She barely sees him these days. He leaves before dawn, slipping out of bed quietly. Pressing a kiss to her temple before walking away. Working more overtime than he'll ever be paid for.

 

He's gone all day, leaving the apartment empty, quiet. At work, she checks her phone for messages from him but there's never anything. Nothing except for calls from her sources, messages from Foggy, a reminder for her doctor's appointment next Friday.

 

He doesn't return until late at night. Smelling of blood and gunpowder, face stained blue and purple, knuckles scraped open and raw.

 

When he slides into bed beside her, his body seeking out hers by instinct alone, she blinks away silent tears in the dark.

 

Even as he wraps himself around her - solid muscle and warm skin - she feels like she's falling apart at the seams.

 

 

 

It didn't take long for him to go out there again. To roam the streets at night and drench them in blood. The next day, she's left with the aftermath.

 

Not at home. Never. There's not a single stain of blood anywhere. No torn clothes. He cleans it all meticulously. No weapons apart from her own .380 and the small gun Frank keeps in the bedside drawer.

 

At work, she feels the fallout. Has to try and tell stories as though she doesn't already know the answer and the secret behind them. Pretend she did not fall asleep in the arms of the man who did all those things.

 

He's not the Punisher anymore, and nobody has made the connection, yet. He's dead to the world once and for all. She's careful to make sure nobody comes up with any ideas.

 

He kills.

 

She cleans up the mess.

 

* * *

 

 

On Friday, she heads from work straight to the medical center. It's been raining these last few days, the humidity making her dizzy as her heels click on the busy sidewalk.

 

By the time she makes it to the waiting room, sweat is pearling on her forehead, her pale blue blouse clinging to her skin.

 

There's a couple sitting opposite her, completely wrapped up in one another. His hand on the curve of her stomach, lips curled into content and dreamlike smiles.

 

The sight fills Karen with dread and she quickly looks away - not wanting to intrude, not wanting to torture herself.

 

Her eyes land on a stack of different pamphlets on a small side table next to her. Everything from cancer prevention to IVF treatments. Feeling restless, she looks through them without really reading them - until she picks up one that was hidden below the others.

 

_Making your choice._

 

She stares at it, her fingers trembling.

 

No.

 

She already made her choice.

 

 

 

“Looks like you're around nine weeks along,” the doctor tells her with a smile. Karen doesn't say a word, eyes fixed on the screen. Black and gray blurs, nothing that makes sense except for the small shape in the middle.

 

_Her baby._

 

“At this stage, they're around the size of a cherry,” the doctor continues to explain, examining the ultra sound closely.

 

Karen tries to imagine something that small, that delicate. Alive. _Hers._

 

“I'll write you down some prenatal vitamins you should take and I'd like to do a blood test as well. Just to be on the safe side.”

 

Karen nods just barely, not even truly registering the words.

 

The doctor is quiet for a moment, sitting back in her chair.

 

“Is there... a different option you'd like to consider, Ms Page?”

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, she's climbing the stairs to the apartment, clutching the pharmacy bag with her vitamins in one hand and the banister with the other.

 

Expecting to spend another evening alone, she slides the key into the lock, sighing deeply. She has to finish a story. That's what she'll do tonight. Clear her mind. Pretend that everything is the way it was before.

 

But the light is on when she steps inside, Frank's boots by the door. There's soft noise from the TV filling the space and as she closes the door behind herself, Frank walks around the corner.

 

“You're home,” Karen states quietly, kicking off her shoes - the soles of her feet rejoicing.

 

He just nods, looking tense. There's no fresh bruise on him. At least none she can see.

 

“Are you going out later?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

 

For a moment, he just looks at her. Dark eyes and deep worry lines carved into his forehead. Then, just barely, he shakes his head.

 

“No.” He takes a few steps forward until he's no more than a few inches away from her. “I'm not going out there.”

 

Her brows furrow, fingers curling tight around her own arms. Slowly, Frank reaches out. Rests his hand on her cheek.

 

Shit, she should pull away. Be angry at him. At herself. At _them_ for not being able to figure this out but instead she breaks. Collapses like a house of cards into his arms.

 

He's right there to catch her, wrapping strong arms around her and holding her to him.

 

“I need you for this,” she breathes into the crook of his neck, fingers curling into his shirt. “I don't want to do this alone.”

 

Maybe she _could_. The thought has crossed her mind many times today and in the last few weeks. But it's not what she wants.

 

What she wants is this. _Them_. Doing this together.

 

“You got me,” he promises, pressing a kiss to her temple. His voice sounds strangled and she knows it costs him so much to make this commitment. But he has never lied to her before and she knows he won't start now.

 

He leans back just enough to look at her, and Karen curls her hand around his neck before he can pull away entirely. Fingertips ghosting across the base of his skull until she feels some tension melting away.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs into the space between them, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Fingers lingering, his touch whisper soft.

 

He has never said the words before, but she saw them often. Felt them in his every touch. Until now, he never found the courage to speak them out loud. He never had to.

 

Leaning forward, she brushes her lips against his. Whispering into the kiss. “I love you, too.”


	3. august

She's going to die. Any second now. Melt into a puddle. Burst into flames.

 

All the windows in the apartment are wide open, the curtains fluttering in the light breeze, kissing the hardwood floors. But even that can't chase away the suffocating heat that's been gathering in here for four days straight now. The air is thick, barely breathable.

 

“Fuck,” Karen mutters under her breath, wiping sweat off her forehead. She's sprawled out on the unmade bed, barefoot, her legs bare up to her cotton underwear, stomach exposed where she pulled up her camisole.

 

It's too damn hot to do anything, and she's glad it's her day off because just the thought of being stuck in the office all day long makes her more uncomfortable than she already is. That place heats up like a sauna with no promise of relief.

 

It's not much better here, but at least she gets to be half naked and immobile.

 

Sighing, Karen looks down at herself, eyes roaming over her pale thighs and black underwear, settling on her stomach. There's a slight swell to it, barely noticeable to most. But _she_ notices. And she doesn't like it, at least not yet. It makes her look bloated, makes all her skirts just a little too tight for comfort.

 

Soon enough, she won't be able to hide it anymore.

 

And she's not sure she's ready to share this with the world.

 

The sound of keys sliding into the lock sends a thrill of excitement through her body and she's up on her feet a second later. Frank's kicking the door shut behind him by the time she hurries into the living room, sweat pearling on his brows, the buttons of his shirt mostly undone.

 

That sight would have driven her blood temperature high not too long ago, but right now, she only has eyes for the two ice cream cones he's holding up. She'd sent him down to the ice cream shop three blocks away earlier, almost shoving him out of the apartment – but he hadn't complained.

 

He keeps the cone of chocolate ice cream for himself, holding out the second one for her with a fond smile lightening up his face. But her own expression turns from excitement to disappointment.

 

“That's not pistachio.”

 

He always gets her pistachio, it's her favorite flavor after all. What he's holding out now looks more like a bright pink fruit sorbet.

 

“You can't have ice cream,” he explains calmly.

 

Karen stares at him with her mouth open for a second. “Wha-”

 

“Not the kind they sell there. I don't trust them with the eggs.”

 

She remembers now. Everything she read about what she is and isn't allowed to eat. The book is still on the coffee table, mocking her now.

 

“Damn it,” she hisses, grabbing the sorbet.

 

 

 

It's better than nothing.

 

* * *

 

A siren howls outside, loud and persistent through the open window and Karen sighs in frustration. One glance at the alarm clock on her bedside table tells her it's just past 3am and she hasn't slept a wink all night long.

 

Slowly, she sits up. She kicked the sheets away hours ago, the tall glass of cold water is empty on the floor. In the dim glow of the street lights, she makes out Frank's silhouette, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

He must know she's been awake all this time, but he kept quiet. Whatever reasons he has for finding no sleep, Karen is sure they have little to do with the heatwave enslaving the city.

 

The sheets rustle as she moves to kneel behind Frank, resting her hands on his bare shoulders and nuzzling her nose into the soft skin behind his ear. His hair, thick and soft, tickles her lips. It's a peaceful moment, intimate in a way they have not allowed themselves these last few weeks. It was difficult to fall back into old patterns when everything suddenly changed so drastically.

 

“Are you okay?” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek. Smoothing her hand down over his shoulder to rest above his heart.

 

For a long, stretched out moment, he's quiet. Looking ahead into the dark, hands flat against his thighs. In the quiet, she can hear everything he ever told her about his wife. About his children. From the good and wonderful all the way to the bloody end. It fills the air around them, makes it heavy.

 

But then, he turns his head. Just enough to look at her.

 

Nodding.

 

When she closes the distance between them to brush her lips against his, Karen's heart feels fuller than before. Her mind a little easier. And when he kisses her back, slides his hand around her neck and through the damp strands of her hair, she feels like he's holding them both together.

 

* * *

 

“I'm going to tell Ellison tomorrow,” Karen says, leaning against the window frame. Outside, rain is drumming against the glass, the sky a dark, looming gray. Every few seconds, lightening flashes through the clouds, the roar of thunder vibrating through the walls.

 

Frank hums approvingly and nods when she turns to look at him. He's been working on their dinner for the better part of an hour, her tablet propped up against the brick wall as he ponders the recipe. There's a dishcloth tossed over his shoulder and if she wasn't so preoccupied, Karen wouldn't be able to bite back a grin.

 

Instead, her hand comes down to the swell of her stomach, invisible under the over-sized shirt she's wearing. “I can't hide that anymore,” she sighs.

 

It's still barely there, but combined with her behavior lately, it won't take Ellison much longer to put two and two together.

 

“He's going to pull me from crime the second I tell him,” she groans, sitting down on the couch and propping her bare feet up on the coffee table. “Maybe that's better. “

 

There's a rattling sound as Frank puts a casserole dish in the oven, setting the timer on his phone before abandoning it on the counter. The couch dips a little when he sits down by her side.

 

“At least for a while,” he agrees.

 

He's not wrong, but the prospect of being stuck writing about subway construction and family specials at the zoo for the next few months makes her want to tear her own hair out. She wanted to make a difference when she started at the Bulletin. It had never been just a job that fell into her hands.

 

“Maybe forever,” she huffs, staring at the stack of paper work next to her feet. “It's the responsible thing, right?”

 

With a baby, it wouldn't be safe to dig too deep, to meet up in dark alleyways with questionable sources, to put her name on articles that soil people's reputation. Frank can try all he wants, but even he can't keep her safe all the time.

 

Maybe family specials at the zoo will be her life from now on.

 

She doesn't know how to feel about that.

 

Frank exhales slowly, leaning back against the couch. “Responsible thing would be to get the hell out of this shithole city,” he says, sounding bitter. There's an edge to his voice she remembers hearing when he wore an orange jumpsuit and was chained to a desk. Resentment. Defeat. “Move to the middle of nowhere,” he adds with a humorless snort.

 

Karen responds with a shallow smile of her own. “Get a house, a dog. I can write fun articles about the local market.” It's all surprisingly easy to imagine. White fence, blue shutters, school buses and a minivan, wigging tails and the smell of homemade apple pie. But instead of warming her, it makes her shiver. When she turns to look at Frank, he has already noticed.

 

“Won't make you happy,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to cover her own. Giving just the lightest squeeze before brushing his thumb back and forth across her knuckles.

 

“No, it won't,” she whispers, drowned out by the roar of thunder. The lights flicker for just a moment, but they refuse to surrender to the storm.

 

Frank's arm lifts to pull her into him, her head resting against his warm and solid chest. “We'll work it out,” he murmurs into her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

 


	4. september

 

Every nerve ending in her body is buzzing like a live wire, restless energy making her skin crawl all day long. Her breath is labored even though she's done nothing to exhaust herself, and her fingers itch against her keyboard long after the article is written and edited and sent to Ellison for approval.

 

Maybe it's because she doesn't get the chance to leave this office anymore. For all intents and purposes, she has a desk job now - it's what Ellison ordered the second she told him she has a baby on the way.

 

It's driving her mad and she has no outlet for all the pent up frustration.

 

This, though... This is different. She knows this feeling, it's just that she never felt this consumed by it before.

 

Lust. Desire.

 

Fuck, she's _horny_.

 

All day long she's irritated by it. The way her thighs rub together, the way her blouse drags over her way too sensitive nipples beneath the lace of her bra. Briefly, she considers heading to the restroom and quickly take care of things but no. It's always busy in there and somehow she knows it won't be enough.

 

A few months ago, she could have called Frank and asked him to meet her for lunch, pull him into a dark alleyway or a restroom at a diner and he wouldn't have hesitated to give her everything she asked for.

 

But it's been months since he touched her like that. Not once since they found out about the baby and she can't take it anymore.

 

Aches for him so desperately that a sharp stabbing pain shoots through her core just at the thought of him. Her hands clammy against her desk, nails digging into the mouse-pad as she exhales slowly.

 

She's had enough.

 

She needs him.

 

 

 

The door slams shut behind her and she doesn't waste a second to kick off her heels and drop her bag onto the floor. Her coat follows a second later and by the time Frank walks out of the bedroom with furrowed brows she's picked up enough momentum to back him into the door frame when she kisses him.

 

There's nothing shy or hesitant about it - it's clear what she wants even before she begins to tear at the buttons of his shirt and grind her hips against his.

 

He's stunned for a moment, hands curling into her blouse at her waist but then he tears his mouth from hers.

 

"Karen," he grunts, shuddering when she sinks her teeth into the skin just behind his ear, inhaling the scent of him. "What-"

 

"I need you," she interrupts him, unbuckling his belt and sliding her hand below the waistband of his jeans before he has a chance to react. It makes her feel powerful, being able to take him by surprise.

 

He's half-hard in her palm, warm and familiar and the way his hips buck and a groan tears from his throat tells her he wants - he _needs_ \- this just as much as she does.

 

But she barely has time to stroke him once, twice before his hands at her waist gently push her away.

 

"Stop."

 

That single word feels like a bucket of ice water crawling down her neck and she freezes. Has never felt more humiliated than she does right now, standing here with her hand down his pants.

 

He doesn't want her anymore.

 

"Fine," she hisses, pulling her hand away. A second later she's in the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind herself. Turning on the shower to drown out Frank calling her name.

 

 

 

Under the hot spray of the shower, all she can look at are her fuller breasts, the swell of her stomach, the little extra weight to her hips.

 

She knows none of that is the reason. She could grow a second head and he wouldn't care - that's not the kind of guy he is.

 

She knows what the reason is.

 

So when she slides her hand down between her legs in frustration, it's not pleasure she feels. It's resentment. Resentment for the very thing she already feels so much love for.

 

Crying, she slides down to the cold, slick floor, letting the water wash away her tears - the swell of her stomach all too real beneath the palm of her hand.

 

 

 

When she walks out of the bathroom an hour later, the apartment is empty. Her heart feels heavy as she slides into bed even though the sun barely just begun to set outside.

 

She's only in bed for five minutes before the front door opens. There's a shuffle, then a clatter, then he's kneeling by the bed. A bouquet of white roses that he sets down on her bedside table and then he crawls into bed beside her. Curls himself around her.

 

She lets him.

 

"Let me explain," he whispers, his warm breath tickling her earlobe as he presses a kiss to the back of her neck.

 

"I get it," she replies, curling her hand around his arm and holding him close. "I don't need to hear it."

 

It's the last thing either of them says. When he trails his lips down the slope of her neck she lets him, arches into him, guides his hand under her shirt until he's cupping the weight of her breast.

 

It's all breathy moans and hoarse whimpers after that as they peel their clothes away and reveal pale, marred, touch-starved skin.

 

His fingers learn her all over again. Trace from the arch of her foot to the curls of her hair until she's trembling, clutching the sheets with white knuckles and a tear trailing from her eye.

 

When he finally sinks into her, it's a moment of peace for them both. It's just them. Nothing else as he makes love to her slowly. Never leaving her fully, the weight of him pressing down on her in a way she missed so much that she claws at him now to hold him to her.

 

Over and over he moves into her as she grinds her hips into him, her skin alive at every point where they touch. And when she falls over the edge, it's his name she cries into the crook of his shoulder - nails biting into his arms.

 

When he follows, it's almost cathartic to watch him bury his face in the crook of her neck. To feel the stuttering, hard thrusts of his hips until he stills and spends himself deep. To hear him choke out her name.

 

Karen wraps herself around him as much as she can. Arms and legs locked around broad shoulders and narrow hips. Unwilling to let him go. Their hearts pound right next to each other, chests rising and falling with slowly calming breaths.

 

Before him, she never cared much about _after_. With guys she only met for one night, it was usually awkward and full of tension, sometimes downright terrible.

 

With Frank, it's her favorite part - and she tries to hold on to that now. Cherish it.

 

Even as his hand finds the swell of her stomach, fingers grazing her ribs, trailing down damp skin.

 

Mapping her out all over again.

 

* * *

 

"Still can't believe you're having the Punisher's kid," Foggy exclaims, eyes flickering down to the swell of her stomach that she doesn't try to hide under her black pencil skirt. There'd be no point.

 

Foggy looks good. He looks confident. Proud of himself. He's wearing an expensive suit he never could have afforded at Nelson & Murdock but it's still _him_ \- God, it makes her happy that he's not just his fancy new job now.

 

There are too many fond memories that already went down the drain. Late night coffee and take out, curses at the ancient faxing machines, beers at Josie's. No matter how it all ended, she wants to keep those memories untainted and real.

 

"He has a name, you know," she reminds him with a stern look, taking a sip of the green smoothie she'd talked herself into ordering.

 

It tastes like straw.

 

An apologetic look crosses Foggy's face and he looks down at his coffee for a moment. Treading on eggshells. "This is- Karen, are you sure you-"

 

"I love him," she interrupts him.

 

They never really discussed Frank after the end of the trial. After the end of the firm. He figured she knew he was alive all this time, figured out that she was involved. This, though, is still brand new to him. And so much harder to digest.

 

"I want to be with him," she continues, turning her head away to look out the diner's window. The street is busy, and a woman catches her eye who is walking her shaggy looking dog. When she looks back at Foggy, he's waiting. "And I want this baby. It's the way it is, Foggy."

 

The words leave her with a sigh and she worries a small packet of sugar between her fingers.

 

To Foggy, he'll always be the Punisher. And that's part of who he is. A part she has accepted from the start. But he's also _Frank_ and some days, she wonders how others can not see that.

 

"Have you told Matt?"

 

A chill runs down her spine at the question and she clears her throat.

 

"I didn't have to," she replies curtly, staring at the scratches in the table. "He knew."

 

She'd only seen Matt last week. Had gone to him because she felt like he deserved to know. But she'd barely walked through the door before he took the words away from her. Telling her about the heartbeat that's quick and quiet and new.

 

"Karen?"

 

The sudden softness in Foggy's voice catches her attention and she looks up, the heaviness of all this wearing her down. "If you're happy, then I'm happy for you, all right?" he says, his smile so familiar that it makes her ache with nostalgia. But he pauses. His eyes narrowing. " _Are_ you happy?"

 

The question lingers between them for a long moment, echoing in her mind again and again. Relentless and unforgiving until she speaks.

 

"Of course I am."

 

 


	5. october

It's a cold night, not a single cloud obscuring the sky and yet the city lights hide the stars from her. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, but still she shivers.

 

Frank's silhouette is pitch black where he sits on the edge of the roof, broad shoulders high and tense. Down on the street, a siren blares.

 

"You should come inside," she says softly as she sits down next to him. The ground is cold, instantly creeping into her bones. It can't compare to the iciness of his silence though.

 

She knows why he comes up here from time to time. Slipping out of bed quietly and disappearing until dawn. He's restless. His trigger finger itching against his thigh.

 

It's been months since he went back out there. Since he killed, since he punished. In the absence of it, he's just Frank.

 

A widower. A father of dead children. A dead man. Not ever hers. Not his own. He's lost and without the coat of blood and the smell of gunpowder there's no denying it.

 

Slowly, she takes his hand, runs the pads of her fingers over the callouses in his palm that never go away.

 

"I can't do it," he breathes into the night, squeezing her hand tight. "Can't go out there." A pause. Heavy. Tense. "Can't be both."

 

It's tearing him apart and all she can do is watch him crumble.

 

* * *

 

Leo and Zach are arguing upstairs, the occasional holler and curse word carrying downstairs into the living room. Sarah just sighs and rolls her eyes, sinking deeper into the couch.

 

"How are you feeling?" she asks, always a kind smile on her face. Karen cherishes that, the opportunity to talk to another women about things that she wouldn't want to discuss with Foggy.

 

A girl friend. She hasn't had one of those since high school.

 

"Better," she replies with a smile, curling her hands tighter around the mug of tea that steams and smells of peaches and cream. "I don't feel like throwing up every five minutes. Now I could just eat all day."

 

Sarah grins knowingly, but Karen shakes her head vigorously. "Donuts," she groans, practically tasting the sticky sweetness on her tongue. " _Oh God_. I could eat nothing but just those."

 

The two of them laugh at that, and Karen tucks her feet beneath herself to be more comfortable. Already the swell of her belly is pressing into her thighs although she's still not showing too much.

 

"When I was pregnant with Leo I ate a truck load of Twinkies," Sarah tells her, taking a sip of her own tea. She'd eyed a bottle of rosé in the kitchen earlier but Karen is sure she decided against that out of empathy for her. "Trust me. A _lot_."

 

Karen's mouth waters just at the thought.

 

"Not much better," she quips with raised brows and Sarah raises her hands in defense. A loud bang upstairs quietens their laughter and their eyes are drawn up to the ceiling.

 

"Asshole!" Leo shouts, and then a door slams shut. Sarah sighs, the smile gone from her face.

 

"How's Frank?" she asks after a minute, loud music from one of the kid's bedrooms muffled but still a constant thrum. The question is careful, spoken with hesitation and Karen wonders if Frank has talked to David. If he mentioned anything.

 

Or if it's just plain obvious that things are not all right.

 

"He's... dealing with it," she replies truthfully. Unwilling to lie to one of the few friends she has left. "In his way."

 

She won't go into detail. That's between her and Frank and she has no right and no interest to open the book of their relationship to anyone else.

 

Stained and torn pages and all.

 

"How are _you_?" Sarah asks instead of pressing her further about Frank, but it's not a better or easier question to answer and Karen weighs her words carefully.

 

Considers to tell the half truth. That she's excited. Nervous. Scared. That she already picked a crib and a mobile to go above it but hasn't ordered it yet because she's afraid.

 

In the end, she tells the truth.

 

"I'm waiting."

 

* * *

 

When he makes love to her, it's different than before. Slow, cautious.

 

He has never just taken from her but now every touch is something precious, a worship, a plead.

 

After, she tries to hold back tears, overwhelmed by it all. And sometimes, in the aftermath of it all, he fractures a little.

 

“I’m scared, Karen.”

 

His voice is barely audible. Fluttering. Fracturing. Nothing but warm tears against the side of her neck, the dampness of his breath ghosting over her skin. A whisper. A plead resting just beneath the surface. Much clearer in the way he clutches her hand in his own – larger, calloused. Squeezing so tight she feels her fingers go numb.

 

“I know,” she breathes, pressing her lips to his temple. Feeling his heart pound restlessly against his ribs, pressed into her side. His free hand resting low on her stomach, tracing the slight curve there.

 

Blinking away her own tears, she curls into him. Holds him close because she’s afraid. Afraid he’ll slip away. Not into the night like has so many times before – countless times, leaving her behind cold and lonely and terrified. No. He’s fading away in the face of fear, crumbling beneath it.

 

“I want this,” he promises, sealing it with a kiss behind her ear. The strands of her hair framing it like a painting, messy brush strokes, and bleak colors. Grey. Pale rose. White. Gold covered in dust. “I want this.”

 

Her heart tears. Bleeds. Weeps.

 

He doesn’t let go. Neither does she.

 

* * *

 

He's holding her hand a little too tight, swallowing hers. His eyes are fixed on the screen, wide and wondrous.

 

Karen still can't believe he came with her, that he asked to be here today. Cautious and clearly hesitant.

 

Making an effort.

 

"Would you like to find out the gender?" her doctor asks then, smiling at them both like this was a normal appointment.

 

Like she's just Karen the reporter and he's just her boyfriend Pete. Like he hasn't grown out his hair and beard to mask himself. Like he's not a wanted man. A dead man.

 

Seeking him out, Karen smiles softly. Excitement bubbling in her veins at the prospect of knowing. Maybe a surprise has its perks but they've both had enough thrill to last them multiple lifetimes. She wants to know.

 

Frank nods, leans in a little closer.

 

"Looks like you're going to have a baby girl," the doctor explains, pointing at the screen. But Karen can't look there. Can't focus on the little white shape that's her _daughter_. All she can see is Frank. The tears welling in his eyes. The way his body cowers, ready to run.

 

Any second now. She can feel it. Feels his grip loosen, his heart growing distant with the memory of _his_ baby girl.

 

A bubbling baby. A toothless smile. First words and first steps. The book. Her body. Lifeless. Mangled. Gone. Just a grave stone and a fading photograph.

 

_That's_ his baby girl. Not the shadow on the screen. Any second now, he'll accept that. And he'll run.

 

But he doesn't. Blinks away his tears. Smiles.

 

"A girl," he mutters, so quiet that even Karen can barely hear it as he leans down and presses his lips to her forehead. "Gonna have a little girl."

 

For the first time since the day they met, Karen can't read him.

 


	6. november

"Everything okay in there?" Karen calls with a frown, listening for any sign of life coming from the bedroom.

 

It takes a few seconds and a lot of rummaging before David answers. "We're fine!" he calls. "Just fine."

 

They're so _not_ fine.

 

With a groan, Karen pushes herself off the couch, annoyed when she sways a little - her center of gravity all messed up. She's dizzy for a moment, steadying herself on the armrest before heading to the bedroom.

 

The floor is cold against her bare feet.

 

"What's going on in here?" she asks, peeking into the room. Frank and David are sitting in the middle of a sea of screws and planks and other pieces of the crib she ordered last week. Exasperated expressions greet her.

 

"Nothing's going on," Frank replies. Oh, she knows that ring to his voice. Tense. Irritated. The same kind he adapts when a recipe doesn't work out. The same he used to talk to her with all the time when they first met.

 

"Don't tell me you two can't put together a crib."

 

She's trying hard to hold back a grin. This is ridiculous.

 

"Course we can," David insists, holding up what looks like a road map. "Not with these instructions, though. They make no sense."

 

Karen hums, lips quivering as she tries to stay quiet. "Sure," she presses out, not missing the way Frank narrows his eyes at her.

 

"Go ahead," he grunts. "Laugh."

 

And hell, she does.

 

 

 

"I'm so proud," Karen teases, pressing a kiss to Frank's cheek. The crib is ready, pushed up to the side of the bed. For now, it's still empty, but somehow just it being there makes everything even more real.

 

"Very funny," Frank groans, shaking his head but pulling her closer into his side. "Should have asked Curtis to help. Lieberman's just useless with these things."

 

"Curtis," she points out, pressing her finger into his chest, "went on a date. That's more important. Who knows. Maybe he's getting laid tonight."

 

She gives Frank her best smirk, pushing herself a little closer.

 

"He doesn't have to be the only one," she murmurs, curling her fingers into his shirt and nuzzling her nose against his jawline. His beard scrapes her delicate skin and she hums at the sensation, a shiver running down her spine when his hands find her hips to pull her close.

 

"Sounds good to me," he rasps, his fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt until he finds bare skin and Karen doesn't have room for coherent thoughts anymore.

 

* * *

 

He's lost in thought, staring out the window into the cold November rain. Hands curled around his cup of coffee. Quiet.

 

Some days, this is still the way things are. There's no use trying to lure him out. All she can do is hold on to the good days. The days when he smiles and laughs and she can see the excitement, the _joy_ , in his eyes. Those are the days that really matter.

 

Not these. The bleak ones where he's lost somewhere in the past, lost inside the man he used to be and never will be again. The man he still is, somewhere deep inside. Scratching at the surface.

 

Karen finishes her breakfast in silence, gets dressed as quickly as her ever growing belly will allow. Looking at the curve of it in the mirror as her daughter spins inside. A little dancer. Always eager. Always curious.

 

She kisses Frank's temple and whispers a goodbye, grabs her bag and heads to work. It's just another bad day that will pass.

 

* * *

 

"Any more stuffing, Karen?"

 

Sarah holds out the massive bowl for her, looking pretty in her purple dress.

 

" _Oh God_ , no thanks," Karen groans, waving her hand. "I'm turning into stuffing right here myself."

 

Everyone at the table laughs, and Frank softly shakes his head at her even as he grins sheepishly. Under the table, he nudges her thigh with his knee.

 

"Oh please," Sarah says, loading roasted vegetables onto her own plate. "You look amazing."

 

Karen feels a little more insecure about the compliment than she usually would. Any other time, she'd accept it gratefully and with a flattered smile. Now, she has to convince herself to believe it.

 

Frank knows. Of course he does. He leans in, presses his lips to her cheek.

 

"You really do," he murmurs, quiet enough that nobody can hear him. _Almost_ nobody.

 

"Gross," Zach mutters next to them, pulling at his tie in frustration and poking his serving of turkey with his fork.

 

These insecurities are new. Unfamiliar territory. She's always been content with the way she looked, knew how to use it to her advantage. Accepted long ago that sometimes, blonde hair, long legs, and a pretty smile could get you to places nothing else could. As much as she hated the fact, it was undeniable.

 

Now, she feels everything but desirable. The last two weeks, she put on more weight than over the last few months combined. Filling out her already swollen breasts, plumbing her face. It's new and it's not her and she finds herself resenting it all.

 

It doesn't matter how hard Frank tries to convince her otherwise. She knows he still sees her in his own way, that her own perception is twisted. There's nothing he can do to make her feel different about herself.

 

 

 

"Oh, how adorable," Sarah says sweetly, smiling down at the ultrasound picture Karen has pulled from her purse. "She looks just like you."

 

"Frank says that's already the best thing that could have happened to her," Karen laughs, fondly looking at the picture of her daughter's face. She doesn't really see the similarities, but she'll trust everyone else's opinion on this. Foggy, Ellison, Curtis, everybody thinks her baby looks like her.

 

Sarah huffs, taking a sip of wine.

 

"He's selling himself short. Although the ears..." She trails off into silence until they both erupt in laughter. It feels good, the ripples of it throughout her body - earning her an excited kick.

 

"Looks a little squishy," Leo remarks, leaning over the back of the couch to take a look at the picture.

 

"You were even more squishy," Sarah points out. "Especially when you came out."

 

Shuddering in disgust, the girl quickly turns away, heading towards where Frank and David are playing a new video game with Zach.

 

"Do you still want a home birth?"

 

Karen nods, tucking her feet beneath her legs and stretching the kinks out of her arms.

 

"I really need Frank to be there," she explains quietly, a familiar fear spreading through her. The fear of going through this alone. "And in a hospital... I'd just worry all the time that someone could recognize him."

 

So far, they've gotten lucky. Frank's papers the CIA gave him are flawless, and at work he mostly keeps to himself. They have their small circle of friends who know the truth, and they don't venture further than that.

 

But she can't shake the constant fear that someday, someone will look into his eyes and see the truth. Dealing with that while giving birth is the last thing she needs.

 

Still, the idea of giving birth at home scares her almost as much. All the things that could go wrong.

 

"And your midwife?" Sarah asks, adjusting the sleeve of her dress.

 

Karen chuckles, immediately dismissing Sarah's vague concerns.

 

"Her name is _Mildred_ ," she explains. "I'm pretty sure she's 90 years old. She has a flip phone and most likely no TV and I think on the weekends she hugs trees in Central Park."

 

Sarah looks at her wide-eyed for a moment, like she's waiting for Karen to reveal it's all a joke. It's not. And when Sarah realizes that, she bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her drink.

 

"I think we're fine. Last week, she brought crystals. To purify our apartment."

 

That had been an interesting afternoon.

 

"Oh, I bet Frank was really into that," Sarah teases, throwing a look at him across the room - engrossed in the car race.

 

"Actually," Karen says, reaching out to grab a handful of potato chips from a bowl on the coffee table. "He's excellent at pretending that he is. And old ladies just love him. Mildred _loves_ the beard.§

 

It's hard not to laugh, especially when Sarah can't contain herself.

 

"I bet he just _loves_ that."

 

"Like you wouldn't believe."

 

* * *

 

Nobody knew Fisk was going to be released from prison, not until today.

 

She didn't know.

 

She still doesn't know.

 

 

 

She has taken today off work to do some early Christmas shopping before she's too large to make it down the stairs of her apartment building by herself.

 

Her feet ache and the cold wind bites at her cheeks.

 

Her phone's battery died an hour ago.

 

 

 

She doesn't know.

 

Not until someone grabs her and pulls her into a waiting van. Until her scream is muffled and darkness takes over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm _so_ sorry for the slight delay and the cliffhanger - I hope that the hint of fluff can make up for that :)


	7. december

Two days.

 

Two days she's been strapped to this chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. Two men with large guns standing at the door. Watching her.

 

She knows the only reason she's still alive is because Fisk is trying to get to Matt.

 

To the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

 

Whether or not he has figured out by now that he's hunting the same man.

 

 

 

Fisk shows up on the third day. Stoic face, lethal stare.

 

Kneading his hands.

 

Not a nightmare. But _real_.

 

She wants to spit in his face. Wants to tell him what she did to Wesley. But she can't. Can only focus on the way her daughter moves inside of her, restless - sensing her mother's distress.

 

The time for taking risks is over.

 

"Please," she whispers instead, the simple word fracturing on her lips.

 

The corner of his mouth twitches.

 

"I did not take you for the begging kind, Miss Page," he says calmly, taking a step closer. "I'm... disappointed."

 

It's not her own life she's begging for, though.

 

* * *

 

Frank never told her much about what happened during the short time he was imprisoned. All she knows is that Fisk played a role in his escape - she never inquired about the details.

 

He never mentioned the promise, the threat, he made to Fisk.

 

Not until he's right there. His fists bloody, lip busted. Bashing Fisk's skull into the concrete ground. There's blood everywhere. Pooling under them, trailing all the way to her bare feet.

 

Matt stands by the door, mask clutched in his hands. Not hiding from the dying man.

 

He doesn't move. Doesn't say a word to stop Frank.

 

It's been a long time since she has seen Frank like this. Unleashed. Violent. Lethal.

 

Memories of the diner flash through her mind, visceral and loud. At the same time, she can still feel the kick of the gun as she fired it at Wesley. Again and again. And again.

 

 

 

He doesn't say a word to her when it's over. When very little remains of Fisk's skull and he falls to his knees by her side.

 

Blood-soaked hands everywhere. Her face, her hair, the ropes that hold her down. The round of her stomach.

 

" _Frank._ "

 

It's a breathless gasp as she falls into his arms, fingers curling deep enough into his arms to leave behind marks even through the black shirt.

 

He smells of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. Almost familiar, like a distant memory.

 

* * *

 

The hospital bed is soft. Warm. Outside, she can see the powder blue sky and the snow glistening on the rooftop across the street.

 

"You need to sleep," Frank tells her softly, running a hand trough her freshly washed hair. So much concern weaved into his words. Still, they sound strained, and she doesn't miss the twitch of his eye or the nervous flutter of his trigger finger against his thigh.

 

Dehydrated and in shock, the doctors had insisted she stay the night for observation when all she truly wanted was to go home.

 

She's so tired. So exhausted. Can feel it down to the very marrow of her bones. But she's too afraid of what she'll see when she closes her eyes.

 

"I'll be right here," he promises, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. "Just get some rest."

 

Reluctantly, she sinks into the pillow, allows him to tug the comforter up to her shoulders. But every inch he moves away, she feels defenseless, vulnerable, afraid.

 

"Stay here," she whispers, patting the bed behind her.

 

The mattress dips as he slides into bed, mindful of her IV, and presses his chest flat against her back. Enveloping her from head to toe. His fingers draw gentle patterns all over her stomach, his lips pressing a sweet kiss to the back of her neck.

 

"You know... Right now, that whole idea of moving into the middle of nowhere and writing about the local apple pie competition sounds really tempting," she murmurs after a while. It's easier to picture now than it was before.

 

She finds Frank's hand. Squeezes it tight.

 

"So," she continues, "please don't ask me to."

 

* * *

 

Even a week after she's back home, things have not gone back to normal. Maybe they never will.

 

Frank hovers. He clings. Doesn't stray from her side and when he has to, she knows he still makes sure that someone keeps an eye on her.

 

Curtis has been helping her with the groceries on Monday. Spent the afternoon on Thursday.

 

And even without him, she feels watched. Wouldn't be surprised if Matt was standing on a rooftop somewhere, watching over her.

 

A part of her wants to thank him. But she's not ready.

 

 

 

She's not going back to work, not until after the baby is born. But at home, she's suffocating with nothing to do. So she dives head first into the nursery they won't be needing for a while.

 

Paints the walls and buys blankets and pictures and stuffed animals. A mobile and fairy lights and a thick, soft rug. She sits there often. In the rocking chair by the window with her hand pressed against where her daughter's elbow dents her stomach.

 

This sure as hell wasn't the first close call she has had.

 

But now... now everything is different.

 

* * *

 

Two days before Christmas, Frank hauls a massive tree into the apartment and they spend two hours decorating it.

 

Soft music plays on the radio, candles flicker on shelves and tables and counter tops. Everything smells like vanilla and cinnamon, nutmeg and pine.

 

Frank even bursts out laughing when he ends up with tinsel tangled up in his hair - it's almost perfect. Almost enough to make her forget about what happened, to ignore the constant worry, fear, and tension that Frank hasn't been able to shed since then.

 

Almost.

 

But it's enough for now.

 

 

 

On Christmas Day, they drive down to the cemetery. Take the long walk through the brisk December air, gloved hands entwined.

 

Karen hasn't been here before. Until now, it always felt like it wasn't her place. Even now, she feels uneasy looking down at the names carved into stone.

 

Eyes inevitably flickering to Frank's grave. Smaller. Void of flowers. Making her feel so, so cold.

 

He asked her to come along, and squeezes her hand a little tighter now. Snowflakes dance slowly from the sky, melting in her hair and against his woolen hat.

 

Even without looking at him she can see how torn he is. Torn between wanting his family to come back and wanting to commit to this. To _them_. To their own family.

 

With a heavy exhale, Karen rests her head on his shoulder. Let's him find answers in the silence.

 

 

 

On New Year's Eve, he kisses her at midnight. They chose to stay home, declining the Lieberman's invitation. Karen doesn't think she could squeeze herself into anything remotely presentable anyway. Even if she wanted to go out tonight.

 

It's quiet until the fireworks start. Warm and comfortable as they spends hours eating good food and watching TV.

 

When he parts from the kiss, barely half a minute into the new year, he asks her the one question she's been silently praying he never would.

 

Lips still feather-lightly ghosting over her own. Fingers buried in her hair.

 

"Marry me?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback on the last chapter - and the entire story so far, in general. It really means a lot to me, especially being new to the fandom and all. I know I didn't dive too far into the whole Fisk thing, but I still hope it turned out all right.
> 
> Sorry for another cliffhanger *hides*
> 
> A little warning that the next chapter might be slightly delayed again because I have a very busy week ahead of me. But I'll try to do my best!


	8. january

"Marry me?"

 

She sighs. Heavily. Allows her hand to fall from the side of his neck down into her lap between them.

 

He wears a frown, deep lines driven into his face by doubt.

 

"Frank," she whispers, lips curling into a sad smile. He pulls away, just a few inches. It feels like a mile.

 

"You don't want to."

 

He's not an insecure man. He's gentle. Sensitive. But not insecure. Right now, though, he's frayed at the edges, fingers nervously balling into fists against his thighs.

 

In this moment, she has more power over him than the barrel of a gun against his head ever could.

 

It's not a power she craves or wants.

 

“Frank, it's not about that,“ she reassures him, voice nearly lost among the thunder of the fireworks. The bright lights shine through the windows, illuminating them in red and green and purple. "This isn't what _you_ want."

 

She knows that he has no desire to marry again. The only reason he asked is out of an accelerated sense of duty and guilt. It's the _right_ thing to do, the proper thing, the responsible thing.

 

But it isn't for _them_ and only now that he nearly lost her does he seem to crumble under the pressure he put himself under.

 

For a moment, Karen hesitates. Then, slowly, she takes his hand in her own.

 

"I don't want to marry Pete Castiglione," she says quietly, ghosting her thumb over his knuckles. "I want to marry Frank Castle. But Frank Castle already has a wife."

 

They never really talk about Maria. Sometimes, Frank will talk about the kids. Love-soaked little anecdotes that he keeps close to his heart. The kind that feel precious when he shares them.

 

But Maria... Maria is his alone.

 

Frank turns his hand, slips his fingers in between her own.

 

"She's gone," he points out hoarsely. Voice cracking with a sorrow that will never truly be numbed.

 

Karen shakes her head. Presses her palm over his heart.

 

"Not quite."

 

* * *

 

Heavy snowfall paralyzes the city a few days later. Frank stays home with her, but it's almost like he's a ghost.

 

There's no hurt pride in him. He has accepted her choice and would never push for more.

 

Still, he seems more quiet. Lost in thought. But it's nothing she can help him through. She knows this look. It's the same he gets on every anniversary of his family's death. On Lisa and Frankie's birthdays. Those days, there's a wall around him that's impossible to penetrate.

 

This time, it must be Maria keeping him up at night.

 

The question if he ever really moved on. And if he ever will.

 

* * *

 

She gets contractions one evening, both of them curled up on the sofa, reading. The pain is suddenly there. Dull and strangely familiar. Then it's gone again. Then it's back, when she has almost forgotten about it. And gone again.

 

Shifting uncomfortably, she puts the newspaper down, presses her hand into the small of her back.

 

"You okay?" Frank asks, concern crinkling his forehead.

 

"I'm not sure," Karen breathes, trying to categorize the pain. It's not too bad. Definitely endurable. But it makes her uneasy.

 

 

 

In the end, it's a false alarm. Mildred tells them as much, her knitted scarf and gloves draped over the back of the couch.

 

"Little one isn't quite ready yet," she explains with a smile, smelling like sage and cinnamon. Something about her is comforting in a way that reminds Karen of Mrs Cardenas. Of the mother her own never was.

 

Frank looks relieved, and when he holds her that night, she can tell he's not sleeping. Tense and restless.

 

"She'll be here soon," Karen whispers, guiding his hand to her stomach.

 

He nods against the back of her neck, presses his lips to her skin. "I know."

 

"If you're not ready-"

 

"I am," he assures her, and she so desperately wants to believe him. "I'm here."

 

* * *

 

“You sure you're not going to just... explode?“ Foggy asks, looking a little uneasy as he presses a curious hand to her stomach.

 

Karen laughs, her daughter moving in response. She's quickly running out of room in there, but it's enough to kick the palm of Foggy's hand and he startles, jumps in his chair.

 

"Jesus Christ!" he gasps, shaking his head.

 

They haven't seen each other since before Fisk, and she's much bigger now than she was before. The last week especially has been exhausting and she's almost obsessively smearing lotion on her skin to prevent stretch marks.

 

Foggy isn't wrong when he worries about her just exploding.

 

"I think we're fine," she reassures him, lips curled into a grin.

 

He doesn't seem convinced.

 

"You want a drink, counselor?" Frank calls from the kitchen, and Foggy startles again. Even after all this time, he's still uneasy around Frank, rarely comes to visit them at home.

 

Karen knows it's mostly because he's incriminating himself by being here, and partly because he never showed the same level of empathy for what Frank did as Karen felt from even before they first met.

 

Foggy is much more innocent than she ever was.

 

"Sure," he replies, shifting in his seat.

 

He's trying.

 

That's what matters.

 

"So, has she got a name yet?" he asks, curious and also desperate to change the subject away from the mass murderer pouring him a glass of wine across the room. Karen looks over to Frank, dish towel over his shoulder, stirring the pasta sauce. He's making an effort, just as much as Foggy is. For her sake.

 

Even though he gets a kick out of teasing Foggy from time to time.

 

"We're still talking about it," Karen replies, fingers curling around her glass. "It's not that easy."

 

She's gone through every baby name list she could find and they'd thrown back and forth at least a hundred different ideas. But so far, nothing seemed quite right.

 

"Running out of time," Foggy snorts, eyebrows raised.

 

He's not wrong.

 

Frank walks over to them then, setting down a plate with garlic bread that smells so divine that Karen feels herself salivating, fingers itching.

 

"We were going to ask you something," Frank says, plopping down in the empty chair next to Foggy who looks more than a little taken aback.

 

"Ask me what?"

 

Karen rolls her eyes at Frank before taking his hand, offering Foggy a gentle smile.

 

"How do you feel about being a godfather?"

 


	9. february

On Valentine's Day, Karen wakes up with a persistent, irritating tug deep in her gut. Little sparks of electricity shoot through her body every time she moves even the slightest inch, not helped by Frank's body pressing against her back warm and all too inviting.

 

She hasn't felt like this in months, and her mind spins, her hips pushing back against Frank's on their own accord. Once. Twice. He grunts a little in his sleep, his arm that's wrapped around her tightening its grasp.

 

Karen reaches behind herself, rakes her fingers up the back of his neck and into the softness of his hair.

 

He wakes then, stirring against her, mumbling her name.

 

"What's wrong?" he breathes, voice thick with sleep, lips ghosting over the back of her neck and _shit_ , that small touch alone sends a shudder down her spine.

 

Unable to form the right words, she just pushes back against him, already feeling herself slick and warm, the peaks of her aching breasts straining against the cotton of the oversized shirt she's wearing.

 

Frank stiffens a little. "You sure?"

 

Frantically, Karen nods, reaching down to push her panties down her legs as quickly and gracefully as she can manage. Frank doesn't seem to be quite on board with her plans yet, though, motionless behind her.

 

"Please," she hisses, grabbing his hand and tugging it down between her legs. " _Fuck._ "

 

She quivers as his fingers delve into her slick flesh, more responsive than she's used to, her core already contracting, tightening. So, _so_ ready.

 

"Frank- Come on, I- Now!" She moans, fumbling to reach back and shove his boxers down. Neither of them has the patience to push them further than just below his hips and then she feels him, warm and hard and throbbing against the curve of her ass.

 

He's pushing inside her a second later, a smooth glide that knocks the breath right out of her lungs and she cries out at the intensity of it all.

 

He stills.

 

"Did I hurt you?"

 

"No," she gasps, shaking her head, arching her back to suck him in deeper. "No, please. Move. I'm- Fra- _ah!_ "

 

He thrusts into her, harder than she expected but it feels so good that she can hardly think straight. The rhythm he sets is slow but deep, grinding into her again and again, and it barely takes a minute before she falls apart.

 

All the muscles in her body go rigid, a silent scream passing her lips as she shakes with every wave of her release, clenching hard enough around him to make him groan a curse into the curls of her hair.

 

He can't hold back, grabbing her hips and pounding into her for a handful of thrusts before she's even gone slack, burying himself deep and spilling his release there in warm, welcoming waves.

 

Even now, her skin tingles. Flush and dampened with sweat, chest heaving as she sucks air into her lungs. Her ears ring, everything dulled.

 

Softly, Frank's lips press against her temple.

 

"What was that?"

 

She chuckles, finds his hand to entwine their fingers.

 

"Happy Valentine's Day."

 

 

 

When she gets contractions late in the afternoon, watching the snow fall outside, it's not a false alarm. Karen knows it right away, eyes widening and a surprised gasp tearing from her throat.

 

"Karen?"

 

Frank's by her side in a second, her laptop dropped mindlessly onto the couch, the website of one of the local animal shelters still open.

 

They've been talking about a dog lately. Playing with the idea.

 

She doesn't care for it now.

 

"I can't believe this," she mutters, the wave of pain already gone.

 

"Believe what?"

 

With a stern expression, Karen nods down at her stomach. It takes Frank a second to catch up, but then his eyes widen.

 

"Oh."

 

 

 

"We're not telling Mildred this baby is coming a week early because you couldn't keep it in your pants," Karen spits in annoyance, the air in the bathroom thick and humid from the shower she took.

 

She knows she's being unfair, that she initiated what happened this morning and it might not even be the reason she's going into labor now. But the pain comes and goes in waves and she's irritated already, not to mention the fear that's starting to creep to the forefront of her mind.

 

She's about to give birth.

 

To a child.

 

To _her_ child.

 

Gripping the side of the sink, she takes a deep breath. Frank is there a second later, wrapping his arms around her and gently running his hand up and down her bare back.

 

 

 

Everybody told her it would take a while. What they didn't tell her was that even half an hour could feel like a decade.

 

By the time the clock strikes midnight, she's clinging to Frank's arm as she walks in circles through the living room. One of his hands presses supportively into the small of her back, but even that can't ease the pain that rocks her body and makes it nearly impossible to keep herself upright.

 

"How much longer?" she asks through gritted teeth, throwing a narrow-eyed glance at Mildred, who arrived a few hours ago.

 

The woman's lips curl into a sympathetic smile. "These things take time, my dear," she says in her soft voice, walking over to rest her hands on Karen's shoulders. "You're bringing a brand new life into the world."

 

Karen huffs, teeth grinding as she tries hard not to cry.

 

 

 

Two hours later she's sitting on the bed between Frank's legs, his chest to her back and his hands massaging her shoulders as she breathes through another contraction.

 

They're alone for a minute now that Mildred has left to get some fresh water from the bathroom, and Karen cherishes the private moment despite the pain she can barely endure.

 

"You're doing good, sweetheart," Frank murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.

 

Having him here with her, this close, grounding her, means more than anything. It can't be easy for him, and there's so much they still haven't talked about.

 

The time for that has come and gone, and in a few hours, they're going to be parents. Whatever fears he still has, he'll have to put them aside and Karen wishes she could help him, soothe him through that.

 

But she can't.

 

Not now.

 

"I love you so much," he continues, keeping his voice low and calm, a deep timbre that relaxes her muscles if even just for a moment.

 

She'd say it back, but all that escapes her lips is a pained whimper.

 

 

 

She's tired. Utterly exhausted. Can feel it down into the very marrow of her bones but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except for the small, warm weight of her daughter cradled against her bare chest. Sleeping, making the softest little sounds, tiny fingers curled against her breasts.

 

Never before has she seen anything as beautiful or perfect. The love she feels makes her heart swell to the point of pain, her skin itches because she can't contain it all. It had been instant, overwhelming and all-consuming.

 

This little life she's holding - button nose and a dusting of Frank's dark hair - is suddenly the center of gravity, an anchor, a magnet that she can't stray from.

 

She's curled into Frank's side, his fingers sifting gently through her hair while the other hand cradles their daughter's head - so small and delicate in her father's palm.

 

Karen can't imagine what this moment must feel like for him when it's already so unbearably overwhelming for her. The loss he carries with him must be amplified now, battling the unconditional love she can clearly see in his glistening eyes when she turns to look up at him.

 

His lips twitch with the hint of a smile he's not yet ready to give, but he leans in and presses his forehead to hers instead.

 

There's no need for words, not now. Everything that needs to be said is spoken silently in a gentle, lingering kiss.

 

Outside, the city starts to come alive with a new morning, the rosy glow of the sunlight filling the room.

 

It feels like a new start in so many ways. A clean slate. No matter how dedicated she has always felt about her work, Karen feels like she has never had as much purpose to live as she does now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter left after this one - I hope you enjoyed this *hugs*


	10. june

With a sigh of relief, Karen kicks off her shoes, dropping her bag onto the floor a second later. Soft music fills the apartment, mellow and sweet.

 

“Look who's home.”

 

The sound of Frank's voice instantly conjures a smile onto Karen's face and she quickly shrugs out of her light coat, putting it up on one of the hooks on the wall. He's walking towards her, hair still damp and a little disheveled, barefoot, their daughter cradled against his bare chest.

 

“Mommy is home.”

 

She'll never get used to it. Being called a mother. _Being_ a mother. It's surreal even now as she hurries towards the two most important people in her life. Pressing a quick kiss to Frank's lips before carefully taking the baby from him.

 

Blue eyes curious, thick brown hair curling on her head, rosy cheeks glowing.

 

“Hey, Charlie,” Karen coos, cradling her close to her chest. The small weight, the warmth, the scent of her as she pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. It fills her heart, makes her feel whole.

 

“How was today?” she asks Frank, and he leans against the door frame with a content smile that comes more easily these days.

 

“She was good,” he reassures her, so much adoration in his eyes that Karen almost avoids his gaze. “Curtis and I took her out for a bit. Saw some ducks at the park.”

 

God, she wishes she could have been there. Every minute spent apart feels like a loss.

 

“How was work?”

 

Karen sighs, making her way over to the couch and sinking down, nudging a stuffed rabbit out of the way.

 

“It was better,” she replies, leaning into Frank when he joins her – his finger reaching for their daughter's palm. “I really didn't think it would be so hard to go back.”

 

She only started going back to work two weeks ago, hesitant about it.

 

How things have changed.

 

Vividly, she remembers a time when work was her refuge, when she spent nights in the office only to avoid coming home to an empty apartment with too much silence for her thoughts to roam in. Now, all she wants is to come home. To spend every moment with Frank and Charlotte, witness it all, soak it all in.

 

It will get easier. She'll want to dig her claws into new stories eventually. Chase leads and uncover the truth. But for now, it's an adjustment.

 

She's grateful for the opportunity. For her flexible work hours and Ellison's support. For the fact that Frank was almost desperate to quit his job and stay home. Spend as much time as possible with them.

 

It's out of fear and she knows that.

 

But it doesn't mean she treasures it any less.

 

* * *

 

“See? She thinks I'm hilarious,” Foggy says, Charlotte cradled in his arms as he makes silly faces and rattles her little lady bug toy in front of her – earning himself a few incoherent, bubbling sounds in response.

 

The sight warms Karen, makes her smile. “Of course you are,” she agrees with a hint of a tease in her voice, the same easy banter the two of them used to share so long ago when things were so different.

 

Foggy narrows his eyes at her, tie loosened and his jacket draped across the back of the couch. “Now you're just making fun of me.”

 

Karen parts her lips in a mock gasps, drumming her fingers against the glass of water she has them curled around. “I would never,” she insists, voice softening as she looks down at her daughter. “But she's clearly your biggest fan.”

 

Foggy has been a true gift. He always has been, but during the last three months, he really proved that he didn't just agree to be a godfather without truly committing to the task. He's coming over to visit much more often, takes Charlotte out for a walk, brings her little gifts. She means something to him, and Karen can't help but feel true joy at that.

 

At the prospect that her daughter will experience the kind of carefree, loving, supportive childhood she had been denied.

 

“That's because nobody ever had a more awesome godfather than Charlie,” Foggy declares, lifting the baby up before lowering her back down a few times. Eventually, Charlotte grows tired, eyelids heavy. She rests easy when Foggy cradles her against his chest, smiling down at her softly. “I gotta admit, you and the Punisher make cute kids.”

 

Karen knows every mother probably feels this way but she has to agree.

 

“Where's he anyway?” Foggy asks, taking a look around the empty apartment like Frank is about to jump out from behind a door.

 

“Group meeting,” Karen replies, taking a grape from the bowl on the table and tossing it into her mouth. “He's bringing back food from that new Italian place you mentioned. You could stay for dinner.”

 

Foggy and her share a look that lingers, hesitation clearly etched onto his features. He has never voluntarily chosen to have dinner here. Was usually invited over or simply ended up staying. Now, it's his choice. An offer he, just a few months ago, would have refused instantly.

 

But then he looks down at the sleeping baby in his arms, back up at Karen, and he sighs.

 

“Sure.”

 

 

 

“Went right to sleep,” Frank announces as he softly shuts the bedroom door behind him and walks back to the couch. He sets the baby monitor down on the coffee table next to the big bowl of buttery popcorn, sitting back down on the couch next to Karen. The cushions dip under his weight and Karen readjusts her position, curling into his side.

 

She doesn't really care about the movie they picked.

 

“Foggy wore her out,” she says with a smile and Frank chuckles, wrapping his arm around her to tug her a little closer into his side. The way his fingers trace up and down her spine is distracting, sending little tingles of desire through her veins that she hasn't felt in a while.

 

“He's good with her,” Frank murmurs, voice low as he watches the screen.

 

Karen hums in agreement. The last thing she wants to talk about right now is Foggy. Her hand rests against Frank's chest, fingers curling lightly into the cotton of his shirt before her lips find the sharp line of his jaw.

 

“Frank?” she breathes, lips twitching into a smirk when he trembles the second her warm breath feathers across his skin. He makes a deep, low noise in the back of his throat, looks down at her with a hint of surprise. “Kiss me.”

 

He does. _God_ , he does.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, she sees resentment in Frank's eyes.

 

She has seen it before. When he looked at her and saw only moments he'll never be able to share with Maria again.

 

She sees it now when he looks at Charlotte. When he rocks her and hums her to sleep and his mind is filled only with a future he'll never get with Lisa and Frankie.

 

It's not something that will ever change, and Karen has accepted that long ago. His grief over the loss of his family is a part of who Frank is, is ingrained so deeply that even she can't always reach him there.

 

What matters is the love she feels when he holds her, kisses her. The tenderness of his gaze and touch and voice. With both of them. He's dedicated, giving one hundred percent of himself. What's left of him – what remained after that day in the park years ago – belongs to her and Charlotte now.

 

It won't always be easy, Karen isn't naive enough to believe that. Maybe one day, Frank will have to go out at night again and punish. Himself more than others. Maybe one day, he won't return. But there was never much use in letting fears of the future spoil the present.

 

Everything is going to be okay.

 

She knows that now.

 

 

 

the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, we've reached the end of this little story. Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback and support - it really meant the world to me *hugs*


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